


Reunion

by SketchLockwood



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SketchLockwood/pseuds/SketchLockwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Richard, Duke of Gloucester rides through Yorkshire, he gets the surprise he never wanted nor expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

_**Wakefield 1473** _

  
His men were tired, their horses spent and bleeding, yet hooves relentlessly beat the ground into dust. One set, close behind another kept tail. Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester kept his eyes upon the goal. The white horse was gaining the lead, it's rider had eluded them since Pontefract. He spurred his horse, spilling blood down its flanks. His weight went with the horse, leaning forward in the saddle forcing his charger forward at abnormal speed. The small smile crossed his face, one which came so usually with the thrill of a royal hunt.  
  
His prey was close, growing closer.

  
He was closing the gap. If only his horse would continue, if the exhausted creature would carry him just that little bit further. As though a miracle had happened, the white horse before him slowed its devils pace. Exhausted from its lead the beast stumbled, it's rider falling from the saddle with a thud, rolling in a cloud of kicked up dust as his mount continued down the road without him. Abandoned, helpless and lying on his back in the dirt; a rare sight even from a quashed rebel.

 

The Duke of Gloucester brought his horse to halt before the dusted figure. Speaking clearly, drawing his sword and holding the blade as an obvious warning. “I come in the name of his noble grace, King Edward. Stand if you can or face death by sword.” He waited for as long his patience allowed, watching as his captive coughed, rolling in the dust until he choked. “Get him up.” He put the sword away, tearing the calf skin gloves off his sweating hands. His fingers were raw, burning from the claustrophobic heat, reddened from the leather burn – the torture the horses reins inflicted upon him. He cursed softly as he rubbed life back into the aching limbs.  
  
By the time his attention returned to his men, their captive now stood, supported by the arms of two soldiers. “Do you know what you have done sir? Interfered in justice and engaged in treason. Do you know the punishment for such?” He got no response, sighing he wiped his brow. Sometimes he cursed Ned, sometimes he wanted less responsibility a normal life. For he and Anne to be among the commons; to live a simple life without such burdens he must now bare. “Can you not speak man? Are you mute or ill?”  
  
“Dumbfounded with fear?” Richard ignored the comment given by one of his soldiers, mocking the man his peers held. Sighing heavily the Duke dismounted, approaching with heavy footsteps. A tiring day was getting worse.  
  
“I said, do you know the consequences? Have respect and look at me when-” He stopped, his words trailing off to an end. Sanity escaped him as his hand lifted the man’s chin so their eyes met. Cold, tired grey on emotionless spheres. Richard gulped, drawing back his shaking hand with hesitation. His skin was cold, yet sweat had taken him so utterly. His heart pounded but his skin drew pale. How could it be? Surely he was mistaken, his memory playing tricks.  
  
“Brother, you have grown into a man. I see Edward has cause to be proud.”  
  
“Release him. Release him now your whore sons!” Richard caught Edmund as he fell, weak knees shaking. “Dear God, I had not known it was you. Why did you not stop? We could have killed you.”  
  
“I thought you were Clifford, or Somerset. Then I would have been dead for sure.”  
  
“Clifford is dead, many years since. Killed by an arrow at Ferry Bridge, by Tadcaster-”  
  
“I know where. Somerset?”  
  
“Dead, and dead. Two since Sandal was under attack.” Richard paused helping his brother into the saddle of his own horse, looking up to the man he once idolised. Once idolised more than even Ned. The sun shining off golden Plantagenet hair, forming a halo like an angel. It all seemed too surreal. Even as Edmund's hand brushed his cheek with a brothers affections he failed to believe it. “What happened, at Wakefield. Papa died, how did you not?”  
  
“Clifford was a fool. I had left long before. Days before. Papa was insufferable, and I had leave from Ned. He wrote, said I was welcome to join troop in Shropshire. I fled after a strife with papa. I was set to return when I heard Sandal was under siege. It was too late when I arrived.”  
  
“But. Micklegate, Ned saw your head-”  
  
“It was not mine, and doubtless Edward knew it.” Edmund smiled, his gaze running off into the distance. “If memory serves, he was always observant.”  
  
“Observant enough to win the crown.”  
  
“Luck. That was luck.” Richard shrugged his response, watching eagerly his brother; reminiscencing of the sweet days of childhood, before all this had happened. Before Ludlow, before Wakefield. When Edward and Edmund had spent hours by his side, telling him stories of their ventures. Stories he had scarcely believed. Until now. The words leaving Edmund's mouth were like the tales of Arthurian legends. “As I had luck, like no other. The boy Clifford took, I knew him not but forever am thankful. He spared my life in the misfortune of looking like me.”  
  
“And here you are, alive and well. Though I beg to know, why you did not come to London?”  
  
“Richard, how could I?”  
  
“Ned would much love to see you-”  
  
“No, no he would not. He would not understand-”  
  
“But you said he would have known it was not your head above Micklegate Bar.”  
  
“He would, but Richard, sweet innocent brother, he would not understand why for so many years I did not return to him. You and Edward, you are close. But we were closer. “  
  
“It broke his heart to lose you. Come to London. He will surely understand-”  
  
“I cannot come to London. For I have mouths to feed.”  
  
“Mouths?”  
  
“You thought I would be alone? For so long? Thirteen years changes a person Dickon. You are a man, as I am married, with boys of my own.”  
  
“Married?”  
  
“The butchers daughter, not as prosperous a match as would have pleased papa. A French princess and no less would have sated his desire for ultimate power. But I am happy no less, happier indeed than I would have been for marrying a dauphine.”  
“Married.” Richard repeated the word, a whisper off his tongue. He then looked up once more, at his brothers smiling figure. “I have nephews?”  
  
“Common born-”  
  
“Hardly. They are heirs to the throne! Should Ned die and Prince Edward-”  
  
“Now Richard, I need not tell you.”  
  
“I want to meet them.” The demanding tone of his childhood returned. The one which so often had seen him scolded by his parents, frowned at even by Ned. Now it made for playful memories, for times less filled with pain. When happiness and colour could be found among the darkness, when he had believed in trust and friends. “Edmund, let me meet them.”  
  
“Richard, they know nothing of who I am. For I dared not tell them-”  
  
“They do not know you are an Earl? A Duke if does now please you-”  
  
“Ned must hear nothing of this. I have no need for another family to be destroyed, by your bidding Dickon. The children of a baseborn-” He rose a delicate eyebrow as Richard laughed, his belly hurting from the sincerity.  
  
“You did not hear? Our brother married a Woodville.”  
  
“A Rivers?”  
  
“And Grey.”  
  
“George married Elizabeth?”  
  
“Good God no! Would it were George!”  
  
“Edward? The fool.”  
  
“So he need not talk of base born children upon the throne. The Prince is only half entitled. But if it helps, I will not say a word. Say I was passing you injured, I thought to ride you home.”  
  
“Sweet brother, always so kind. Unlike our brother George.”  
  
“Who worsens by the day.”  
  
“I had heard so.” Edmund spurred the horse, Richard walking by its side as his brother dictated the way. Down roads and through villages. Men fell silent as they passed the castle atop the hill at Sandal. Edmund's eyes welled with tears, a sight not uncommon each time he rode by. Memories and imaginings plagued both brothers as they progressed into Wakefield in silence. Through the dingy streets until Edmund snapped the reins taut outside a handsome town house in the high end of town. “Would you give me a hand my lord?”  
  
Richard had no sooner helped Edmund dismount than children were upon them, brushed off by a tired looking woman greeting her husband with bread and kisses. “I was worried, you are hurt?” Her eyes fell upon Richard, disgust filling her face. “His type, they are not-”  
  
“Cherie.” The tint of French nobility came into his accent as he spoke, stroking her cheek with tenderness. “Worry not, he saw my fall and came to aid, not harm. This is the Duke of Gloucester, youngest brother to King Edward himself.”  
  
“The memories, my lord.” She turned to Richard, curtsying low. “My humble apologies for the loss of your father and brother those years ago.”  
  
Richard tried to smile, unable to correct her as Edmund looked to him with pleading eyes. Although he knew now that Edmund was not dead, this humble lass was not so wrong. Those years ago he had lost his brother at Sandal. And now, now they would talk before a warm peasants fire with heated ale. All to fuel the lies he was so used to telling. The lies which came with being royal. The lies he was growing so tired of.


End file.
